


Oedipal

by Fairleigh



Category: Original Work
Genre: Explicit Sexual Content, Extremely Underage, F/M, First Time, Grief/Mourning, Mother/Son Incest, No Dialogue, Very Creepy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-20
Updated: 2018-10-20
Packaged: 2019-06-30 03:35:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,210
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15743427
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fairleigh/pseuds/Fairleigh
Summary: The incestuous tale of a mother named Jo and her son Eddie.





	Oedipal

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SockPrincess](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SockPrincess/gifts).



She was old enough to have adult grandchildren when he was conceived, and because the doctors told her that the risk of serious complications — both to herself as well as to her unborn child — was high, she came _this close_ to terminating the pregnancy.

In the end, though, Laurence talked her out of it. If worse came to worst, he said, then what would be would be. They’d make do. They’d survive. They’d come out the other side all the stronger. She felt reassured by his confidence; her husband always did have quite the way with words.

She needn’t have worried. Edward — dear, sweet, little Eddie! — was perfect. Just. _Perfect_.

Jo was certain that she had never loved anyone — or anything — as much as she loved her new baby boy. She didn’t know how to keep it all inside; she felt like her heart, swollen with love, would burst free from her chest. She felt like she might explode. She wept with joy for three days straight after Eddie was born and washed him clean with the brine of her tears.

That was her son’s first bath.

~*~*~

They may not have been young, no, but Jo and Laurence were progressive, forward-thinking parents who were determined to ensure that Eddie had the very best of absolutely everything.

So, naturally, Jo breastfed him. Breast is best, the experts said! And she never pumped to bottle-feed him later, either — the only nipples Eddie’s wet, pursed lips ever touched were made of her own flesh and blood. His big, dark eyes were usually open while he nursed, locked onto his mother’s gaze, and Jo had never felt so thoroughly beheld.

They practiced co-sleeping, too, and probably slept much better for not having to climb blearily out of bed to sooth a crying baby at 3 am. When Laurence was home, Eddie slept between him and Jo, and when Laurence was away for work, which was often, he curled into the warm, welcoming circle of Jo’s arms. She’d taken to sleeping naked on those nights; there was no one to see, and Eddie was able to suckle more easily with such ready access to her breasts.

On those nights, she’d listen to his soft breathing, his hums and gurgles of contentment, and dream of fresh yogurt, almonds, and honey.

~*~*~

Eddie wasn’t fully weaned until Jo stopped lactating entirely. He was nearly five years old.

As such, he retained strong memories of being breastfed, and as he grew older, he continued to associate her body with that early, animal comfort, burying his face into her chest when he was anxious or upset. Jo held him during times like those, stroking his soft, thick hair and inhaling his tender, boyish fragrance.

She’d never menstruated again after giving birth. Clearly, Eddie was destined to be her one and only.

And although he had his own bedroom — painted in bright, primary colors and chock full of books, toys, and games — he continued to sleep in his parents’ bed as well whenever Laurence was away … long past an age that polite society would consider such a thing appropriate. His thin, delicate limbs would tangle up carelessly with Jo’s, and she found it reassuring to feel him beside her, against her, his nose brushing her collarbone, his breath tickling her ear, safe and sound, her own little daily miracle.

She and Laurence never discussed it, but then, Laurence was coming home less and less often these days. Sometimes, she didn’t even know he’d returned until the next morning when she found him sprawled out on the living room sofa, still fully dressed in yesterday’s work clothes.

~*~*~

Eddie loved books. He was thoughtful and introspective and reciting the plays of Shakespeare and Sophocles from memory by the age of twelve. He was an especially big fan of the Ancient Greek tragedies.

On the other hand, he wasn’t so keen on stereotypically age-appropriate activities like sports or building forts out in the woods with other boys. The experts said this was common among only children — around adults at home, they became akin to little adults themselves. It was nothing to worry about, the experts said. He’d grow up just fine.

Eddie’s quirks didn’t bother Jo, anyway; where at first she’d loved him simply for being her son, now she’d come to love him for his restless, brilliant mind as well. He taught her so much, and his questions, commentary, and endless new ideas about ideas kept her constantly on her toes.

They also kept her company. These days, it was usually just the two of them.

Some of their best conversations happened while she soaked in the bathtub. Eddie’d soap and scrub her back while chattering excitedly about this new scathing newspaper op-ed or that new awe-inspiring first novel. His latest obsession was organic chemistry; their back garden was a veritable smorgasbord of neurological toxins, he told her, dark eyes shining. He got so excited about deadly nightshades on one occasion that he’d splashed himself and soaked his clothes straight through. She’d ordered him to strip so as not to give himself a chill.

He obeyed without question, and she was vaguely surprised to discover that he had an erection. The foreskin was still stuck to the glans, concealing it completely, but he was as stiff as iron and leaking profusely. Unmistakable. She’d noticed the fuzz growing underneath his arms and around his genitals previously, the skin of his scrotum darkening and loosening, but she hadn’t truly acknowledged the reality —

Her boy was becoming a man.

He had a wet dream — possibly his first? — that very night, moaning in his sleep and rubbing against her belly until he seized and spilled himself.

~*~*~

Finally, the inevitable: Laurence never came home. No letter, no telephone call, no warning. No _nothing_. He just … disappeared from their lives.

Jo wept bitterly into her pillow, and later, when Eddie joined her in bed, wishing to console her, she wept into his shoulder. She cried a river, enough to bathe her son once more with her tears. All the while, his erection prodded her thigh. He was patient, it was true, but he was also insistent.

Was it down to loneliness that she let him have her? Or a love of another kind? She didn’t know.

His kisses were awkward but enthusiastic, his caresses clumsy but tender. He nipped at her throat and licked her breasts. He dropped a hand down between her legs and stoked her need, her desire, her desperation, so that she parted her legs willingly and gave him permission to slip smoothly, sweetly, into her.

She’d thought herself akin to a desiccated, barren field; Eddie taught her otherwise. He opened her up and lit her spine aflame with perfectly placed thrusts. The fit was gorgeous. And he no longer smelled like her baby, she realized. Instead, he smelled like a man, all sulphur and brimstone, heady, dangerous, _relentless_ , and he ploughed her until they were both gasping and trembling, until grief transmuted into orgiastic joy.

When he came inside of her, it was with the force of a firehose, and she could swear she felt his seed splash against the very walls of her womb itself.

Maybe, on some level, he wanted to return there.


End file.
